Mirrors (32 page)

“One minute, thirteen seconds!” he announced.

“Grainger, are you there?” a voice called from the tunnel.

It had a familiar cadence, but with the whirring mirrors and idling helicopter, I couldn’t place it.

“You want to know who made the demands on me?” Grainger asked, brushing my ear with his lips.

“No, I want to answer—”

“Not yet! I’m going to tell you who placed the demands on me!”

We pivoted toward the tunnel, bringing into my peripheral vision the digits on the cell phone: …
0:57 … 0:56
…
0:55
…

Another swift arc pointed the gun directly at the entry to the tunnel. A figure emerged within it just as a bead of sweat rolled into my eye. As I tried to extract my finger from the trigger, Grainger squeezed it, firing the gun. It sent a man falling to the floor at the tunnel entrance, blood spurting from his temple.

… 0:36 … 0:35 …

“
That’s
who placed the demands on me!” Grainger raged. “He forced me to poison the shrimp! It was blackmail—nothing less—and I’m not going to live under his tyranny anymore!”

…
0:29
… 0:28 … 0:27 …

I craned my neck. “That’s Congressman Homer McCloskey you killed!”

“No, that
you
killed,” he replied, his voice eerily calm. “Your fingerprints are on the gun.” He squeezed my arms to keep a lock on me.

… 0:19 … 0:18 …

“Let me go!” I shouted, reviled that I’d murdered someone, a Congressman, no less.

“Finish your answer!” Grainger ordered.

I struggled to regain my thoughts. “The mirror forms of XK59 act differently,” I began, voice cracking.

… 0:17 …

“Whereas rightward XK59 in the venom destroys muscles, leftward XK59 blows holes in blood vessels.”

… 0:14 …

“That’s the answer!” I shouted.

A jerk of the arms.

“Shoot!” he screamed.

With the phone atop the mirror our target, Grainger squeezed my finger. The bullet missed.

… 0:11 … 0:10 …

“Dammit, keep your arms still!” he shrieked.

Another shot, another miss.

… 0:07 … 0:06 …

“Give me the gun!” he yelled.

As he tried to transfer it from my hands to his, the weapon fell to the floor.

“
Shit
!” he cried, groping for it.

With his stooped figure beside me, I watched the digits.

… 0:03 … 0:02 …

I went limp as the mirrors revolved around us. Lifting my hands, I covered my eyes.

A shot rang out as the bells on the alarm clock rang.

Spreading my fingers, I saw the cell phone had disappeared while, beside me, Grainger knelt with the gun frozen in his hands, its barrel still pointing in the direction of its target.

“Did you get it in time?” I cried.

He nodded and stood. After collecting his box, he started for the tunnel.

“Wait!” I called.

He stopped without looking at me.

“What demands did McCloskey place on you?”

“Too many to count,” he replied, stepping forward.

“Tell me this, then: Why did you splice the
XK59
gene into
Aeromonas
when you simply could have stocked shrimp with sufficient XK59 to cause bleeding?”

He faced me. “You’re an unfeeling bastard to switch the subject to XK59 after committing cold murder.” He motioned to McCloskey’s lifeless form.

“
You
squeezed the trigger!”

He let a chuckle run its full course. “Poisoning the shrimp outright wouldn’t have allowed me to accomplish my goal.”

“Which was?”

“To teach you about XK59. To do so, I devised a lesson plan. The first lesson entailed having you figure out that the level of XK59 in the victims exceeded that in shrimp.”

“That was easy.”

“Right, which allowed you to progress to lesson number two: deciphering
how
the levels of XK59 came to be much higher in the victims than shrimp. That’s why I brought the two bacteria,
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
and
Aeromonas hydrophila
into the picture.”

“Because one produced XK59 in the victims.”

“Correct, and I suspect you needed the clue I provided to identify the correct bacterium.”

“You mean, the glowing
Aeromonas
,” I said.

“Right.”

“But your references to ‘VP’ in the cryptic codes didn’t help. They made me think
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
was the culprit.”

“I couldn’t make your lessons too easy!”

“And the algebraic link of the missives to Ebola virus,” I added. “I needed help with that, too.”

“Which led to the final lessons: The original source of the protein and the dual actions it exerts.”

He looked at the corpse. “You should thank me for teaching you because McCloskey wanted me to kill you in Ecuador.” He stooped and, inserting the tip of a boot into one of McCloskey’s trouser pockets, said: “Take a look. See the ivory?”

I knelt beside him and peered at a handgun with white grip panels.

“I bought that gun in Africa and gave it to McCloskey as a gift. He used it to kill the CEO of
Natow Pharmaceuticals.
”

“
McCloskey
shot him?” I blurted. I recalled Bird’s revelation in the UNIT the first day I went there that someone had shot the CEO, but to learn now that it was McCloskey who killed him seemed inconceivable.

“Yup, and tossed him into a dumpster after killing him.” He wiped his brow. “
I
didn’t want to poison the water supply; McCloskey did, and he forced me to do it. All I wanted was contrition from you in the form of an admission to the journal, and I got it.”

“Why did McCloskey insist on poisoning the water supply?”

“It was targeted retribution,” Grainger replied. “He felt two congressmen betrayed him by switching their stance on WAFTA in recent months. Each had promised him a vote against the bill only to reverse course. He took it personally after years of helping the two through their political careers.”

“Which congressmen are you referring to?”

“Peter Shaker and Nick Kosta. That’s why he chose the two particular water systems to poison—one in each of their districts.”

“So the other plant was in Dallas, Texas?”

“Yes, Kosta’s district.”

“But horse trading is standard in Congress; votes switch all the time. What was different about WAFTA that led McCloskey to harm fellow citizens?”

“He felt WAFTA threatened his dearest constituents: Louisiana shrimpers. By eliminating tariffs on imported shrimp, he was adamant WAFTA would harm the shrimpers irreparably by making imported shrimp far less expensive than far higher-quality Gulf Coast shrimp. He felt obliged to help the shrimpers, particularly after a crew member from a shrimping vessel lost his life years ago while unsuccessfully trying to save McCloskey’s wife in a boating accident. His bond to shrimpers became as strong as steel following those deaths.”

He paused as if to regroup his thoughts.

“But let’s be clear,” he continued. “McCloskey was no angel. He was a mean son of a bitch, often commanding others’ lives, including mine.”

“What gave him that power over you?”

He looked at me with indecision. “I’m not going to get into that; all I’ll say is that I disobeyed him by saving your life. He wanted me to kill you in Ecuador but I refused to because I wanted to confront you face-to-face to teach you about XK59.”

“Why was that so important to you?”

“Because, I felt enormous pain after getting rejected from medical school two years in a row. When I contacted some of the schools to ask how I could improve my application, I was met with arrogance on their part. And then you stole my bark as I pursued a PhD, a theft I considered yet another strike from the medical community. The combination of these events made me want to show a physician that I knew something about science and that my degree wasn’t inferior to yours. That’s why I strove to become your teacher.”

“I can understand that, but what did McCloskey have against me?”

“Lots of things, but I’m not going to speak for him.” He looked at the dead body. “All I’ll say is that he had me bring you here so he could have the pleasure of using that ivory-handled gun to kill you.” He grinned. “You see, I’ve been your teacher
and
savior.”

“Hardly a savior; you killed three men—Muñoz, Zot, and McCloskey.”

“This one deserved it.” He pointed to the Congressman. “He wasn’t even man-enough to stick around. Several weeks ago, when he realized the ‘ayes’ would outnumber the ‘nays’ on WAFTA, he made plans to flee the country after the vote.”

Glowering at McCloskey’s body, he said, “We ended that plan, didn’t we?”

He kicked McCloskey’s head and disappeared through the tunnel.

12:15 a.m.

On the ground beside me, the weapon I used to kill McCloskey lay like a link to a jail cell.

I listened as the helicopter revved its engine. It sent the canvas into a renewed frenzy, testing the integrity of the tent. While my instincts told me to abandon the place before it collapsed, the sight of McCloskey’s body beckoned me to remain, not out of reverence but, rather, morbid fascination. During my years as an internal medicine resident, I had seen death often on hospital wards, but in the final three years as a hematology fellow, such encounters had become less common. McCloskey’s skin had yet to assume the sallow look of death, and while a pool of blood had clotted beside his head, it still glistened. A dented soda can and a half-spilled bag of popcorn nearby served as a makeshift memorial.

My eyes returned to the gun. Eyeing a stray paper napkin, I wrapped it around the weapon and picked it up. I took it with me as I made my way through the tunnel to the exit. Outside, the moon had painted the earth in a silver sheen, a softer hue than the solitary mechanical light that blipped from a helicopter speeding into the horizon. Silence soon engulfed the land, and I rushed to my car to find it alone now, Grainger’s van having disappeared.

It was then I noticed I had missed a call while I was in the tent. A message from Spud informed me that Eve had gone to the hospital in labor. Could I get there as fast as possible?

I sped out of the parking lot with one hand on the wheel and the other working the phone. Anxious to avoid meeting a vehicle from the UNIT, I left the main road at the first opportunity to pursue a narrow country lane. Only when the amusement park was well out of view did I stop to address the hospital operator who answered my call.

“Labor and delivery, please,” I said.

“I’m sorry, it’s after-hours,” she replied.

“My wife, Eve Krispix, is in labor! Can I at least get an update on her?”

“One moment, please.”

I waited as the call transferred.

“Dr. Krispix,” a voice announced. “Let me get your father-in-law. He’s around the corner.”

An eternity passed before Spud came on the line. “Jason! Eve’s in surgery.”

“
Why
?”

“The baby was in distress. Eve’s having a caesarean section.”

“
My God
! I’m on my way!”

I threw the phone down and pressed the accelerator, following the bucolic lane over hill and dale until I came to a thoroughfare that eventually joined the beltway. My phone rang as I reached 80 miles per hour.

“You’re a hard man to reach!” Alistair Brubeck said.

“I’ve been busy.”

“So I’ve heard.”

I let up on the accelerator to take an exit toward Washington, D.C. “What do you want?”

“We found some interesting documents in Grainger’s apartment, including a draft manuscript on XK59 Grainger recently wrote. I don’t know if he submitted it for publication, but it’s fascinating.”

“What does it say?”

“It describes the role copper plays in determining the three-dimensional structure of XK59. The spider’s hemolymph is rich in the element, which explains the insect’s blue-green colors. The highest levels of copper are in the venom glands where an enzyme packs each XK59 molecule with a pair of copper ions. Loading the second atom is a high-energy proposition—kinda like pushing a car uphill—but once it’s in place, the second atom switches XK59 to a rightward orientation which, in turn, allows XK59 to destroy muscle fibers. After the venom has been ejected, a copper atom falls out, and without a mechanism to reinsert it, XK59 reverts to a leftward orientation which causes bleeding. That explains why the
XK59
gene in
Aeromonas hydrophila
caused bleeding: without sufficient copper around or an enzyme to push a second atom into place, XK59 remained in the leftward form in humans, shrimp, and
Electric Jolt
.”

It also explained why Grainger’s colleague in Madagascar bled to death after striking the bark: XK59 deposited there from a spider’s previous kill had reverted to the leftward form that caused bleeding.

After hanging up
with Brubeck, I wound my way through Washington, D.C.’s Virginia suburbs before reaching Chain Bridge. Halfway across the expanse, with no cars in sight, I stopped and rushed outside to a handrail. Below, in the moonlight, I saw a swirling current rush by boulders lining an inhospitable channel of the Potomac River. It was a spot referred to in a recent news clip about a kayaker who lost his life there after capsizing and striking a rock.

Trembling, I lifted an arm and pitched the gun that killed McCloskey into the center of the river. It struck the water without a splash. With a set of headlights appearing behind me, I returned to the car and drove off with arms shaking.

It was less than two miles from the bridge to the hospital, and when I arrived, I rushed to the lobby but before I could reach the elevator, a muscular figure threw an arm around me.

I could say nothing, let alone breathe.

He dragged me to a room around a corner where Flagstaff, Bird, and a bald man with a ruddy face and double chin occupied a table.

“Sit,” Bird said. He motioned to ruddy face. “Have you met Dr. Molder?”

“No, I don’t believe—”

With a second look, I recognized the man as a partner in the obstetrics practice where Eve received her care. At a visit a month earlier, he had popped his head briefly into an examining room.

“Actually, we have met,” I corrected myself.

“Hello, Dr. Krispix,” Molder said. He stood to shake my hand. “I did Eve’s C-section tonight.”

“How is she?” I blurted.

“She’s fine, as is your baby girl.”

“A
girl!
” I exclaimed. “I want to see her!”

Excitement welled within me for Eve had insisted—old-fashioned as it was—that we learn the baby’s gender at birth and not a moment earlier.

“We’ll let you see her shortly,” Bird interjected. He turned to Molder. “Go on, doctor.”

Double-chin: “There’s been a small complication, however,” he said.

My chest heaved.

“Eve has tuberculosis.”

“
What
?”

“Before the surgery, we told her we could biopsy the breast mass after we delivered the baby while she was still under general anesthesia. I just heard from the pathologist that there wasn’t a trace of cancer in the biopsy, but it’s loaded with
Mycobacterium tuberculosis
.”

“
TB
?”

“Yes, a tuberculous mass; quite unusual these days.”

“But, she hasn’t had a cough!”

“This isn’t the typical form of tuberculosis that involves the lungs. Rather, it’s a rare presentation as a solitary breast mass. There are a handful of reports in the literature that describe such presentations, mostly in patients living in developing nations.” He looked at me inquisitively. “Has she traveled anywhere interesting recently?”

“Indonesia six months ago; she volunteered there for battered women.”

His cheeks lightened. “Oh, so that’s where she picked it up!” He stood to leave. “We’ve consulted an infectious disease specialist to get her treated.”

I stood, too, but before I could take a step, Bird reached for my arm. With his free hand, he placed a call.

“What do you want?” I asked him.

Into the phone, he said: “We’re ready.” Then, to me: “Your detail’s over. We need to debrief you.”

“No more Latin phrases!”

“Bear with us,” Flagstaff said. In the artificial light, his eyes had turned from hazel to coal and the wrinkles across his face deepened, as if a rainstorm had washed the desert, etching arroyos into the earth.

Reluctantly, I sat, and as I crossed my legs, the door flew open to allow a half dozen uniformed men to file in with a civilian at the lead whom I recognized from newspaper photos.

“Jason Krispix,” the man said, taking a seat across from me. “Gaylord Williams, Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.”

He looked like a man with a mission, every movement of the eyes decisive and bold. His dark hair was slicked back with nary a wayward strand. He was a warrior through and through, an executive now perhaps, but with roots steeped in combat. Nodding coldly, he said, “Congratulations on becoming a father.”

“It’s hearsay until I see my child,” I replied.

The warrior turned to Bird. “Let’s not keep the man long.”

Bird shifted to a seat before a laptop and projector. On the wall before us, a grainy video started that depicted the opening of a tunnel framed by mirrors.

“Hey, I was there!” I said.

Two sets of extended arms appeared, one enveloping the other, as a gun pointed toward the tunnel. An older man made an appearance through the tunnel. The image jerked, and then the man fell to the floor.

Bird froze the frame. “Why’d you kill McCloskey?”

“
I
didn’t kill him! Frank Grainger forced my finger to pull the trigger!” I pointed to the image. “How’d you get that?”

“Your shirt,” Bird said. “Left collar … ”

I removed a small bead from it. “What is this?”

“Mini-cam. We saw everything live.”

“I planted it,” Flagstaff explained.

“When?”

“In the woods near the water treatment plant; we had to know where you were at all times in case we separated.”

“Well, it was Grainger who pulled the trigger,” I huffed.

“We believe you, son,” Williams said from across the table. “McCloskey had it coming, anyway. He’d become a pain in the ass ever since WAFTA heated up. Now we know he was a traitor as well.” He shook his head. “I
told
the President not to give him the UNIT but McCloskey prevailed.”

I felt like a guest on a Sunday politics hour of the sort McCloskey had attended routinely. “Where would you have placed the UNIT?” I asked Williams.

“Under my department, of course!
We
do security; Congress does politics.”

“A Washington turf battle …”

“
Everything’s
turf in this town, son,” he snapped. “One grabs what one can.”

“Is that what this has been—a turf grab?”

“If it turns out that way, so be it.”

“Another notch for you—having the UNIT transferred to Homeland Security.”

He smiled.

“A costly way to get turf,” I added. “Fifteen ill throughout the U.S., including three deaths, not to mention my colleague, Muñoz, and the owner of the shrimp farm in Ecuador.”

His face reddened. “Don’t give me that shit, Krispix! All of this happened because McCloskey orchestrated the poisonings with the help of a pervert, Frank Grainger. It’s a damn good thing my folks kept an eye on them because things could’ve been worse.”

My voice cracked. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

“We didn’t know McCloskey’s plan of attack, only that he had an ill-defined intent to use your protein to inflict harm somehow.”

“Or was it you
wanted
him to commit a heinous act in order to claim his turf?”

He moved his head side-to-side as if to say, maybe yes, maybe no.

“My
God
!” I whispered. “Sick!”

“Welcome to Washington, son.”

“
You’re
responsible for putting me through this hell! It wouldn’t have happened had you acted preemptively! I’m just a pawn!”

He snickered. “You’re being far too generous with yourself: You’re no pawn; you’re a speck of dust on a Washington chess board.”

“Save the quote for a journalist,” I said.

Williams turned to Bird who, in response, displayed a slide on the wall. It was a photo showing the remains of a sedan totaled from a front-end collision. Through the broken windshield, one could see a man’s head propped atop the steering wheel, forehead dented, face bloodied, hair bedraggled. “Who do you think that is?” Bird asked me.

“No idea.”

“He was a former recruit, a guy like you who we brought to the UNIT on detail. He was a radiation engineer. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of contacting a reporter after he completed the detail to talk about what he did at the UNIT—this despite instructions not to do so. The day after the reporter called the UNIT to corroborate the story, a Mack truck ran into the engineer’s car. Poor soul’s looking up from his grave now.”

“And the reporter?”

“He’s alive, although he’ll be living in a nursing home the rest of his life.” The next slide showed a middle-age man in a hospital gown slumped in a wheel chair. He had a vacuous look as drool ran from his mouth.

“Reporter?” I asked.

Bird nodded.

“What did you do to him?”

“Let’s just say he sustained a brain injury.”

“You guys design Hallmark cards on the side?”

“Yeah, here’s one of them.” The next slide depicted a man whose face had been ripped from its head and dangled below the chin by a pedicle of skin. With the front of the skull severed, glistening frontal lobes were visible while beneath them, two eye balls hung limply over the back of the throat, one of the eyes bloodied. Incredibly, the faceless figure sat upright, conscious, it seemed.

“Wanna hear the story?” Bird asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Note the crimson-colored eye. Ironically, crimson has symbolized fire and power for centuries. This guy abused his power.” He paused. “Another recruit with loose lips.”